


Omnia Vincit Amor - A Valentine’s Day Story

by CumberCurlyGirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cupid - Freeform, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV Cupid, valentines day, valentines fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 07:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17914652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CumberCurlyGirl/pseuds/CumberCurlyGirl
Summary: John and Sherlock are in love but are too stubborn to admit it, even to themselves. Cupid gives them the nudge they need.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to [ Irrevocably_Sherlocked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrevocably_Sherlocked)  
> for beta'ing.

_Omnia vincit Amor: et nos cedamus Amori._

Love conquers all, and so let us surrender ourselves to Love.

Vergil, Eclogues. 10.69

 

One day when I was young, my mother sat me on her lap and explained Love to me. “My darling Cupid, Love is a strange and wonderful thing. It has a life of its own, and like life itself, it will find a way. It will survive in the most barren desert, the coldest arctic glacier, and in the darkest depths of the ocean. It is found in the unlikeliest of places and between the most opposite of souls. It will flourish when given a chance. Your father and I are an example of this: Venus, the Goddess of Love and Mars, the God of War. My son, you are the child of our divine union, and you have a mission, a sacred mission, the most important mission. You will reveal and unleash the love that makes life worth living and worth giving up.”

And so, I went out into the world with my golden-tipped arrows.


	2. Chapter 2

12 February, Baker Street, London

“You are, without a doubt, the most arrogant, infuriating arsehole I’ve ever met!” These words emanated from the open window of the second story flat on Baker Street. In addition to these harsh words, a great deal of foul-smelling smoke was drifting into the frigid February air. On the street below, passers-by looked up with fleeting interest but kept walking, resuming their conversations, and continuing the journey to wherever they were going.

“Oh, John, it’s only smoke…and a bit of toxic sludge, nothing that can’t be cleaned up, well, mostly cleaned up. And I’ve made an important breakthrough! Don’t you see? The liquefied tissue—"

“Not caring, Sherlock! There is _liquefied tissue_ all over my books, my journals, and it’s in my bloody teacup!” Shouted the man, John apparently, who was holding a newspaper and using it to fan the noxious fumes from the flat.

I flew closer to investigate.

The man at the window was small, blonde and understandably angry. His clothing, hair, and the skin of his face and hands was flecked with dark bits of some viscous substance.

“This is why we can’t have nice things,” he continued.

“Oh, do get over it, John, this is science.” The man uttering these words was standing at a kitchen table cluttered with equipment. He was tall, thin, very handsome, and wearing well-cut, expensive looking trousers, a dress shirt beneath a blue dressing gown, and long rubber gloves. Oblivious to the mess around him, he was holding a pipette and using it to drip clear liquid into a glass dish containing more of what appeared to be the “liquefied tissue.” He seemed wholly engrossed in his task.

Just then, the door to the flat burst open and a small woman, neatly dressed and coiffed, entered.

“Sherlock, what are you doing to my flat!” she exclaimed, wrinkling her nose at the stench. “I heard an explosion.”

“He’s destroying it, that’s what he’s doing. Look at my books! They aren’t even mine! They’re library books; I’ll be charged for them!”

Sherlock finally set down his pipette and looked annoyed. “John, for god’s sake calm down. I’ll pay for them if that’s what you're worried about!”

“That’s great, just fine. Money is nothing to you because you have it. Well, it’s something to me, and no, I don’t want your damn money.”

As he said this, John used a tea towel to wipe the goo from his face and hair. He succeeded in removing most, but not all of it.

“Boys…” interrupted the woman.

“Mrs Hudson, you deal with him; I need some air.” John retrieved a jacket from a hook on the wall, shrugged it on, and stomped out of the flat while muttering “selfish prick” under his breath. The woman turned and watched him leave then wheeled around to the tall man with a pained look on her face.

“Go after him, Sherlock!” she implored, the mess temporarily forgotten.

“What for?”

“I hate to see you two fighting. And so close to Valentine’s day!”

“I fail to see what that has to do with anything.” Sherlock picked up a slide and slid it into place beneath the microscope.

“Sherlock, let me tell you about my late husband, he might have had his faults but—”

“He ran a drug cartel; he had people murdered.”

“Yes, but he had his good points. Always got me flowers on Valentine’s Day, No matter what. Even in our darkest times. He was such a romantic.”

“Mrs Hudson, if you are quite done, I have an experiment to finish…Wait. Why would you think I would give my flatmate flowers, or anything, for Valentine’s Day?” He peered up from the microscope in what appeared to be honest puzzlement.

Mrs Hudson put her hands on her hips and shook her head with a sigh.

“He fancies you, Sherlock, and you fancy him.” My ears perked up at this information.

“Have you been taking your herbal soothers today, Mrs Hudson?”

“I’m serious, Sherlock.”

“John does not fancy me. And I’ve never fancied anyone, _ever_.”

“I don’t believe that, not for one minute. You two were made for each other, I’ve got an eye for these things. Only last year, I introduced my friend Ruth’s daughter Elizabeth to—"

“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock said this so loudly the woman jumped. “Sentiment is a distraction that, happily, I’ve been able to avoid and will continue to do so. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get back to work.” He tilted his head toward the door.

His reaction reminded me of the line in Hamlet,  _The lady doth protest too much, methinks_. 

I alighted on the back of the chair nearest the kitchen and watched as Sherlock continued to peer into the microscope. He remained in this position until Mrs Hudson left the flat. As soon as the door closed behind her, he sat up, then stood. He walked to the window and pulled down the sash. But before he did, he stood looking out on the street, lost in thought, or perhaps looking for something or someone. He turned and paced the floor several times, then stopped at the window again before taking a seat in the chair opposite mine, scowling at…what exactly? He seemed to be aiming his frown in my direction, but I soon realised that his eyes were on the chair itself. I looked down. It was just a chair, an ordinary upholstered chair with a Union Jack pillow. What had this chair done to earn such a look? I looked closer at the man’s face. I realised that he wasn’t angry at all. He was confused, and perhaps not used to being confused. He brought his hands together in front of his face and pressed them to his lips.

As I watched with interest, he got up from the chair and went back to the window. He opened a violin case there and pulled out the instrument. He handled the violin with loving care, and settling it beneath his chin, began to play. His eyes were closed, and a look of pure concentration replaced the scowl. I didn’t recognise the piece, but it was beautiful, perhaps his own composition.

I decided that I would stay here until the other man, John returned. I was beginning to understand that I was needed here, but I wanted to learn more.

Sherlock played for quite some time before returning the violin in its case and checking his watch. He looked out of the window again. John had not yet returned, and it was clear to me that Sherlock was anxious about it.

The afternoon turned into evening and Sherlock was at the desk typing on his laptop. He hadn't yet cleaned up the mess that made his friend so angry. His mobile lay beside him, and he glanced at it a few times, picking it up only to put it down again.

Finally, at half-past eight, there were footsteps on the stairs, and John walked through the door, his face red from the cold.

“So, did you get enough ‘air,’” Sherlock said, not looking up.

John stood there for a moment in his coat, shaking his head.

“You didn’t clean the flat.”

“I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“Sherlock…”

“I said I’ll do it tomorrow; I’m typing up my notes while they are fresh in my mind. Don’t you understand that this is important, John?”

John looked at Sherlock and shook his head again. “Never mind, Sherlock, just never mind. I’m going to bed.”

This was going to be a test of my skills for certain, but I felt up to the task. I would start first thing tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

13 February, Baker Street, London

John was dressed and sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee and toast with jam, looking at his laptop as Sherlock shuffled in, hair sticking up in all directions, wearing striped pyjama bottoms, and an untied dressing gown. It hung open, exposing his pale, almost hairless chest. He went straight to the coffee pot and, after pouring himself a mug, flopped down into the chair across the table from John.

I sat on the top of the cabinets, watching.

“Anything on the website this morning?”

John didn’t answer, just shrugged.

“John, I’m going to clean it up today; just let me finish my coffee.” As he spoke, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his dressing gown and put one between his lips.

This got John’s attention, and he looked up from the laptop.

“Nope, no, absolutely not. You are not smoking in here.” Sherlock didn’t seem to notice, and maybe even John didn’t realise it consciously, but when his eyes fell upon his shirtless flatmate, his breath caught, and his eyes lingered perhaps just a bit too long. I, having centuries of experience with this sort of thing, recognised it for what it was.

Sherlock sighed deeply. “But I need a case, it’s been weeks, John, and now that my experiment’s been wrapped up my brain needs stimulation.”

“Then let’s find you a case.” John turned his attention back to his laptop.

“OK, here’s one.”

 _Dear Mr Holmes,_  
_My husband has been acting unusual. He’s been coming home from work late several nights a week. He’s got a new, young assistant and I think he’s having an affair. Would you please—_

“Boring, next!”

“That’s it; there are no more.”

Sherlock put the cigarette back into his mouth.

“Stop it. God knows I want to kill you sometimes, but I’ll not watch you do it to yourself.”

“John, I didn’t know you cared.”

“Of course, I care, Sherlock, you’re my best friend.”

Sherlock’s face softened a bit, “Thank you, John, you’re my best friend too.” He slid the cigarette back into the package.

This almost tender moment lasted just a few seconds before the dark haired one had to go and ruin it.

“You going out like that?”

John looked down at himself “Yeah, what’s wrong?”

“That jumper…it’s hideous.”

By this time, I’d had just about enough of these two men bickering. It was time to do what needed doing. Time to make them see each other, really see each other, to recognise what it was they clearly meant to one another. I intended to open their hearts. I don’t create love, I reveal it. I remove the barriers, the blindness, and the stubbornness that keeps people from recognising and expressing their deepest, feelings.

I pulled an arrow from my quiver and fitted it into my bow. I drew it back carefully, then let it fly. My aim is always perfect, and it struck John in the neck.

“Ow!” He clapped a hand to the spot, then looked at his empty palm. “Must be something that got in through the window yesterday.”

Another arrow flew true and struck Sherlock in the middle of his bare chest. He twitched, looked down, and furrowed his brow. “Perhaps,” then looked up at John.

“But it looks good on you.”

“Pardon?”

“The jumper, it looks good on _you_ , John.”

“Oh. OK, thanks.” John said, his cheeks reddening just a bit.

I smiled and, pleased with myself, made a quick victory flight around the room with a few happy somersaults thrown in for good measure. I love my job.


	4. Chapter 4

13 February, Baker Street London

While John was at work, Sherlock spent the day cleaning the flat. To be honest, he did also lie on the sofa for several hours, but his mind was clearly occupied; this man’s brain did not seem to have an off-switch. However, most of the day was spent scrubbing the floor, hoovering the rug, wiping down the cabinets, and neatly putting away all of the scientific equipment that littered the kitchen. Every now and again, he would stand back, admiring the results of his labour. I knew just what he was thinking in those moments; it was clear from his face. He was thinking of how John would react.

When John returned that evening, he was carrying several bags and packages, which he almost dropped as he looked around the tidy flat.

Sherlock looked positively giddy as he beamed at John from his chair.

“John, I wanted to apologise for yesterday.”

“Sherlock, I wanted to apologise for yesterday.”

They spoke at the same time, over top of each another, and both laughed self-consciously.

“I bought Chinese takeaway and a bottle of the scotch you like,” John said, crossing the room to stand before Sherlock and holding out one of the bags. Thought we could break it open and watch a film tonight. Kind of a peace offering.”

Ah, alcohol, the social lubricant, the temporary destroyer of inhibitions. It’s not my competitor, and it didn’t matter at this point, as my potion was already working its way through the men and in a far more lasting fashion. But if a drink was going to speed the process along, all the better.

“Sounds delightful,” Sherlock said, and they held each other’s gaze for a bit longer than flatmates do.

Ten minutes later they were seated on the sofa watching _Shutter Island_ , eating takeaway with the unopened bottle of scotch on the table.

Thirty minutes later, they were seated a bit closer together, empty boxes littered the table, and the bottle of scotch had been opened.

Sixty minutes later, they were quite close together with Sherlock’s arm draped over the back of the sofa above John’s shoulders, and the bottle of scotch sat half full.

“It’s an anagram of course!” exclaimed Sherlock. “Edward Daniels is Andrew Laeddis! Anyone can see that he’s the mental patient and not an investigator!” He smirked, self-satisfied, and drained his drink.

“Right as always.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“Yeah, ‘course, I know better than to watch a film with you the first time. You always spoil it.”

“It’s always obvious.”

“Not all of us are geniuses.”

Sherlock suppressed a smile at the praise, and his cheeks got a little pinker.

They settled back to watch the rest of the film and Sherlock’s arm drifted a bit lower so that his fingers brushed John’s shoulder. John pretended he didn’t notice, but he did, and now it was his cheeks that coloured. With his eyes glued to the television, he shifted just slightly so that he was almost nestled under Sherlock’s shoulder.

This move emboldened Sherlock, and he let his fingers close around John’s upper arm and began, ever so slightly, to stroke it. Just the smallest of circular movements with his thumb. Still, John didn’t protest or move away, just leaned the tiniest bit more against the detective. Their eyes, turned toward the television, were no longer seeing. They were each exquisitely conscious of the other, of the contact of their thighs, of their bodies. They’d been close before, many times, but this was different, and they both knew it. Something had changed. They were afraid to speak, to break the spell, afraid some joke or embarrassed remark would destroy the moment, the quiet intimacy, the dawning realisation of what this meant or could mean.

John rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock continued his caress as John’s hand moved from his own thigh to Sherlock’s. No longer even pretending to watch the film, John’s eyes closed as he enjoyed the warm closeness of their bodies and his lips formed a small smile before he drifted off. After a few minutes, Sherlock stole a sideways glance at the man under his arm.

I could almost see the inner conversation Sherlock was having with himself. He was berating himself for breaking his own rules, apparently so rigorously followed, and for so long. How long? I didn’t know the answer to this, but it didn’t matter, even this man’s practised self-discipline was no match for my potion.

I rested my chin on my hands and smiled as I watched him lose his battle with himself. Have I mentioned how much I love my job?

The film ended, and Sherlock clicked the remote and tossed it aside.

“John.”

“John.”

John opened his eyes sleepily and turned his face up to look at Sherlock.

“Yeah?”

“You fell asleep.”

“Guess I did.” John made a move to pull away, but Sherlock’s grip on his arm tightened.

“Don’t,” he said very quietly.

They looked at each other for several seconds, although it may have seemed like minutes or hours to them. Then wordlessly Sherlock bent, and John met him. It was a soft, tentative kiss. Sherlock brought his hand up to cup John’s cheek as their lips connected, and kept it there when they drew back and paused as the full impact of what they had just done sunk in.

“John, I’m...sorry—” began Sherlock, quickly dropping his hand and sitting back.

“Oh god, no—I’m sorry,” John stuttered, withdrawing his hand from Sherlock’s thigh and getting to his feet unsteadily. “Um, the scotch—"

“Yes…the scotch.”

John looked at his feet, and Sherlock looked at his hands.

“Well then, I think I’ll turn in. Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John.”

John made a stop at the loo and was about to go to his room when he hesitated, and with his back turned, said, “Sherlock?”

“Yes.”

“Just so you know, I’m not actually sorry.” Then, without saying more, he walked up the stairs to his room.

Sherlock sat in the dark for several minutes before going to his own room.

******

I visited John first.

He undressed in silence, then sat on the edge of his bed, rubbing his face thoughtfully before lying down.

“He kissed me,” he murmured as if he couldn’t believe it.

He lay back on the bed and looked at the ceiling.

“Sherlock Holmes kissed me,” he said again as a huge grin spread over his face, then he placed the pillow over his face to muffle his giggles as he writhed on the bed, kicking his feet like a fifteen-year-old girl.

******

When I entered Sherlock’s room, he was in his bed, wide awake and staring at the ceiling with intensity, as if he was hoping he could see through it to the room above.

“He let me kiss him,” he murmured as if he couldn’t believe it.

“Why did he do that?” His brow was knitted with concentration. Agitated, he got out of bed, padded to the living room in bare feet and picked up his violin.

He played for hours.


	5. Chapter 5

14 February, Baker Street, London

Valentine’s Day, my favourite day of the year, began gloriously. Sun shone through the windows of the Baker Street flat lending a cheeriness to the place. Even the skull on the mantel seemed to be grinning. All over the world, Love was being celebrated, announced, and rediscovered, with flowers and chocolates, cards and kisses. I could feel every one of these gestures in my very soul, feeding it.

I was at the window, observing the beautiful day outside and absorbing the energy of ten million acts of love when Sherlock burst from his bedroom impeccably dressed in a dark suit. He strode purposefully across the room, put on his coat and tied his scarf around his neck, humming all the while.

Leaving the flat, he almost collided with Mrs Hudson, who was holding a tray with tea.

“Sherlock! What are you doing up so early? Did you get a new case? Is the game “on?”

“No, Mrs Hudson, I have an errand to run this morning, and I’ve got to be off. Happy Valentine’s Day, by the way,” he said merrily, kissing her on the forehead before dashing down the stairs.

She stood there dumbfounded for a few seconds, before shaking her head and saying “He’s such an odd one” to herself. She brought the tea to the kitchen table just as John came down the stairs in his pyjamas.

“Good Morning, Mrs Hudson.”

“Good Morning, John, Happy Valentine’s Day. You look happy, you’ve got a glow…”

“Oh yeah, Valentine’s Day, I completely forgot!” He slapped a hand to his forehead. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to run out and take care of something before Sherlock wakes up.”

“Sherlock’s gone dear, rushed out of here not ten minutes ago.”

John glanced at the clock. “It’s only 9 am,” he said, incredulously.

She shrugged. “Said he had an errand to run, and he was in such a good mood. Even wished me a Happy Valentine’s Day. Come to think of it he was sort of glowing too.” Realisation dawned on her face. “Did you two—"

“Mrs Hudson, I really must excuse myself,” John said, blushing a bit.

This woman has excellent perception skills. I quite like her.

*****

Sherlock returned first, carrying a bouquet of purple lilacs. He sat in his chair fidgeting, toes tapping, fingers moving restlessly. He went to the mirror and fussed over his hair, sat back down, then got up and looked at himself again. He put on music, Schubert. Finally, he picked up the lilacs and sat in his chair waiting.

Soon, there were footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock sprang to his feet and hid the flowers behind his back as he waited for John to arrive.

The door opened, and John walked in.

The two men stood still, looking at each other from across the room, then Sherlock took a few steps forward.

“John, I…”

“Sherlock, about last night—”

“Are you taking it back, John? The not being sorry?” Sherlock’s face looked stricken although he was trying desperately to keep it neutral.

“No, no, I’m not taking it back, Sherlock. God no.” John closed the distance between them.

They stood and looked helplessly at each other.

They were going to figure it out, figure each other out, figure out how to say what needed saying, how to do what needed doing. But for now, they just stood.

It was Sherlock who broke the silence.

“John, I am a ridiculous man.”

“Sher—"

“No, hear me out. I am a ridiculous man, an arsehole, and a rubbish flatmate. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of it. You don’t deserve it. You deserve so much more than me. I’ve done a lot of thinking these past few days, rethinking my…self-imposed rules, and well, I hope that you’ll forgive me and accept these.

He drew the bouquet from behind his back and held the lilacs out. “Happy Valentine’s Day, John.”

“You…you bought me flowers?”

“Yes.”

John smiled a brilliant smile as he shook his head in disbelief.

“So, I’m your…”

“Valentine, yes, John, if you’ll allow it.”

Still smiling, John reached into his pocket removed an envelope; he held it out to Sherlock and traded it for the bouquet.

“Open it,” he said as he held the lilacs to his nose and breathed in the heady scent.

Sherlock opened the envelope slowly and drew out a card. A Valentine’s Day card with a heart on the front and when opened, an inscription that read:

 _I choose you._  
_And I’ll choose you over and over and over._  
_Without pause, without doubt, in a heartbeat._  
_I’ll keep choosing you._

_John_

Along with card were two tickets to the London Symphony’s Valentine's Day performance.

Sherlock looked at the card, and the tickets, and then at John.

The flowers and the card fell to the floor as they came together and wrapped their arms around each other, John’s head against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“May I kiss you, John?”

In answer, John placed his hands on Sherlock’s cheeks and pulled him down to his lips as Sherlock’s hands went to John’s waist. When they finally broke the kiss, Sherlock said, “Do we need to talk about this, analyse the situation?”

“No,” John said, placing a finger on those lush lips, and shaking his head. “I don’t think so; I think we need to keep kissing.” And then they did just that, and more.

I won’t share all the intimate details, because they are well, _intimate_. What transpired that day belongs to these remarkable men who were exploring their newly discovered love. But I will tell you they stood there holding each other there in the middle of the room kissing, and kissing, and kissing, at first in the most tender way, until the kisses became more passionate and hungry, with fingers buried in hair and bodies shifting, pressing, and _wanting._

After they finally had their fill of each other’s mouths, they broke apart and wordlessly, Sherlock led John to his bedroom, and there they stayed for the rest of that beautiful Valentine’s Day morning. I didn’t enter, I’m no stranger to what goes on between lovers in the bedroom, but I was content just to listen. I sat on the floor outside the door, my wings against the wall, hugging my knees.

There was a rustling of clothing, the thump of empty shoes hitting the floor, the creak of bedsprings as the weight of two bodies settled on them. There were whispers and low murmurings.

“…for so long…”

"It’s always been you…”

“Can I...?”

“Yes.”

Just then, Mrs Hudson entered the flat with a plate of heart shaped biscuits. She paused when she saw the lilacs and card on the floor, and her mouth made a soundless “o.” Tiptoeing into the kitchen, she placed the plate on the table and glanced down the hall to the open bedroom door just as someone moaned loudly. Her face lit up with a smile as she held her crossed hands over her heart. She looked directly at me and gave a little nod. Did she see me there? Surely, she couldn’t have, but I winked at her anyway. She turned and left just as silently as she had come.

I turned my attention back to what was going on in the bedroom. It was almost time for me to go but I had one last thing I needed to hear, just a formality really, but one of the joys of my profession that I would be loath to miss.

I flew in and alighted on the foot of the bed, surveying the scene. Hastily removed clothing littered the floor. The curtains were open, and golden sunlight poured over the men on the bed half covered in tangled sheets. The sight of them together brought me such sweet joy. They looked happy and sated, their skin flushed and shiny with sweat, limbs entwined. John rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder while tracing little circles on his chest with his fingertips. Sherlock’s long fingers were in John’s hair, and his kiss-swollen lips pressed against his temple.

“John.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t want this to end.”

“It doesn’t have to, Sherlock, I’m not going anywhere.”

“I love you, I must have all along, I’m sorry it took me so long to realise it, and I understand if you don’t —"

“Hush, I love you too, ‘course I do,” John said, moving his hand to Sherlock’s cheek and rising to look into his eyes. “I. Love. You.”

And there it was. I smiled to myself, and gazed at the two men on the bed. Now I could go with a light heart and the satisfaction of a job well done. In the years to come, I would visit them from time to time, here at Baker Street and later at their little cottage in Sussex. "Quality Control," I call it. I like to check up on my handiwork, which in this case, if I do say so myself, was spectacular.

I’m Cupid, the God of Love, the only one in the world. I invented the job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Purple lilacs are symbolic of the first emotions of love.


End file.
